tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-239317112012-02-16T05:20:15.728-08:00Has escapedhopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comBlogger1311100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-23146099799746564002009-08-18T21:55:00.000-07:002009-08-17T12:24:51.602-07:00

Dear YouA hiatus from usIs long overdueYou have been kindTo read me now & thenBut sooner or laterYou will find, theseRoutines become burdenWhen endured overtimeSo we will end it hereLet this mortal diePray this goodbye outlivesAll my previous triesYours trulyHopscotchPS: Hopscotch is going to keep reading all the blogs on her right...so you better write!

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-44673154385713034632009-07-23T12:41:00.000-07:002009-07-23T12:54:56.653-07:00

Come onNot that I don’t want toSometimes I really do butI can’t decide whether to prose or verse the wordsor just let them be unrelatedlike strangers in queuewaiting to do mundane tasksYou see I cannot write a short storyIts...well, not my cup of teaAnd a novel won’t fit this space Anyways, my ideas all go wasteThey are not inspired enoughfor poetry; my muses are unsavorylike stale, fizz less

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-16537834430283696742009-06-20T11:43:00.000-07:002009-06-20T11:52:41.576-07:00

GoSit quietly and listen to yourselfWhy do you always need me?Don’t you like your own company?GoMaybe you can read a bookDon’t get disheartened if it doesn’t Make sense after a page or twoPersist, most books take time In growing on youGoBuild a few stoned wallsIf you find a window, don’t crawlOut of it to find me hiddenWith my head under the sandTo escape from your shenanigansGo Please don’t take

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-83890336695978718822009-06-15T08:24:00.000-07:002009-06-22T08:29:10.544-07:00

Certain girls don’t heed what they read. A girl I know, who worships Wodehouse, who knows that whenever Bertie sleeps in his mauve pajamas he becomes the center of attention by some midnight incident involving an ex-fiancée or a burglar, will dare to dismiss these incidents as fiction. She will go out to buy curd in her bright pink shorts thinking it’s a two-minute job and that huge food store

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-89846756733890309742009-06-09T11:02:00.000-07:002009-06-10T11:32:02.924-07:00

There is a point in reading a murder mystery a second time. When you already know the end, you pay a little more attention to the details which led to the end, you see a little something more, a little better. Same goes with watching some movies twice. Like 'The Reader’. You feel Hanna’s angst more; you can see how much ashamed she feels seeing a bunch of kids giggle over their menu cards, how

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-6366195811644757942009-06-05T11:41:00.000-07:002009-06-05T12:00:28.473-07:00

It is easier to kill a roach than a tickBack of the slipper will do the trickMosquitoes die in a clap of the handWith speed their corpses crash landDon’t spare the ants, red or whiteJust crush their mud hills with delight Swat the fly and blow on your swatterThat it took ten attempts doesn’t matterRats die after eating poisonous cakeSweetness is something easy to fakeThe worm that chews on your

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-18997187908179937372009-06-03T11:29:00.000-07:002009-06-03T11:33:52.518-07:00

I follow you in your footstepsYou live in my blind spotYou gobble up my admirationYou are a hyperbole fed on meWhile I, the fool that I amJust cannot seeHow I deceive myselfBy imitating your faults And your virtues alikeAndWhen our books are balancedAt the end of our livesWe have had a parallel existenceYou own up to your punishmentWhile I, like those cowards whoBlame their gods for their

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-66124011419712912072009-05-13T10:33:00.000-07:002009-05-20T09:19:24.027-07:00

When I was in standard eight, the teacher who taught us English Language met with some kind of accident and went on leave. After a week of euphoria which a no-writing-made-up-letters-to-made-up-people-thanking-them-for-made-up-gifts ensues, in walked a substitute teacher whose appearance lived up to the subject he was embarking to teach. Mr. Percival Joseph towered over all of us with his six

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-56471283061560698502009-04-16T03:54:00.000-07:002009-04-16T04:58:47.721-07:00

I wonder if lovers still hand-write letters to each other. If they still sit a little lost, drumming their fingers on their heads, a pen dangling from their lips, thousand thoughts in their heads clamoring for attention. If they imagine a sweet sigh for every word they write, if the torn sheets full of rejected ink lie strewn on floor, rolled into balls. If they read and re-read what they have

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-54359236486953874232009-04-08T13:16:00.000-07:002009-04-08T13:19:10.634-07:00

The worst feeling is hearing a baby cry, constantly, for hours and hours, everyday.A sitcom is interrupted.A headache is realized.A song is drowned.A thought is intruded upon.Not to mention that general feeling of helplessness one feels while watching bad stuff happen from a distance.She has had enough.She gets up.Opens the door.Crosses that two feet corridor.Rings the bell."Is everything ok? P

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-11340412476221304822009-04-05T09:46:00.000-07:002009-04-05T09:50:26.805-07:00

Head achesThrob throbAnd IWho just fought with herOver everythingIn between earth and skyFlatter herCome now,You have analgesic handsShe retortsAnd what you have,A dick head?And on this expletiveThis conversation endsTill our next tiff

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-24269803095986489742009-03-19T08:22:00.000-07:002009-03-19T10:00:40.533-07:00

Here follows some non-sequitur babble...-I am not your experimental reader. I am skeptical. If you recommend a book to me , I would probably spend hours on the internet researching it, getting acquainted with the author, and only when it passes my-stuck-up muster, I decide to read it. Sometimes I over-estimate my reading capabilities and purchase books like 'The Great Indian Novel' which sit

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-82082236715287698642009-03-06T01:45:00.000-08:002009-03-06T01:56:36.387-08:00

Dear Miss We hired you on contract basisTill it’s over, you are ours to ownYou are our annual stripperYou do strip to your very boneBut this year we have a complaintSo heed it well, don’t disdainWe feel you are being maliciousYou are shedding clothes too fastThough we need your body deliciousWe do want the process to lastSpring has just arrived hereAnd you have already gotten bareSo dear

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-75421831411697958722009-03-05T04:27:00.000-08:002009-03-05T04:31:44.070-08:00

Susie dreams. She is attending her ex-boyfriend’s wedding, and he is getting married to her best friend. She is neither happy nor angry. She is hungry and is wondering whether it’s polite to eat even before wishing the bride and groom. Then she is wondering whether she has forgiven too easily, too early. Then she is wandering in this huge expanse of the wedding venue, lit up, crowded, with

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-37936434235409894332009-02-18T01:56:00.000-08:002009-03-05T04:32:11.057-08:00

Love, my loveIs ground glassWith jagged edges Don’t let it fallOr hold onto tightYou may get a cutDon’t look through itWorld will appear blurJust make it into shadesWear them on your eyesIt will help you focusOn keeping me in your sight---A sheet of ground glass is used for the manual focusing of both still and motion picture cameras - Wikipedia

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-60461503024511279002009-02-13T01:12:00.000-08:002009-02-13T01:06:53.699-08:00

A few authors in this world are not just mere mortals sitting at their writing desks and penning down stuff. They are pure evil. They have devilish powers and they have ulterior motives. Their pens are filled with magic potions. They are like those drug peddlers who will entice you, enamor you, engage you and finally, end you. You start with reading one of their books and you know what... it's

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-54284251780181326472009-02-09T03:41:00.000-08:002009-03-05T04:38:00.674-08:00

Life isn't arithmetic.I know that, you know that.Still, we will keep the countOf who called whom and whenAnd how many times and forHow many minutes in the Abacuses of our mindsI always lead the scoreAnd I do wait for youTo catch up with mineBut you never have timeSo I will again make this callLife isn't arithmetic, I knowBut life is in love, after all--Qateel Shifai would have sighed, shook his

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-57918879455516997232009-02-08T12:52:00.000-08:002009-02-09T03:33:59.138-08:00

Amid an altercation of egosAnd my growing suspicionsYou shout, "Get Lost"I play along, "I will"--AnywaysIt is not that difficult to get lost these daysI know an art, opposite of personificationI can’t recall the word but I read somewhereObjectification? Abstraction? Dehumanization?I don’t know ... but I sure know this trickIn which I become a pair of gold ear ringsThe same ones you buy for her

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-11613372625536609482009-02-06T03:25:00.000-08:002009-02-06T04:35:55.414-08:00

It is such a delight to discover a poet like Dorothy Parker.She is funny, witty and such a 'wisecracker'.I can imagine her, wearing a fancy hat, sitting in one of those upper class Manhattan lounges, sipping a margarita, and driving everyone crazy with her candid conversations.No poet is spared a dark side and because I have such a pre-dilection for exploring dark poetry, I present a simple yet

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-76614169034863177882009-02-02T09:59:00.000-08:002009-02-02T10:28:15.262-08:00

Look! Look! What I re-discovered after a gap of nearly two years!My heart was so jumping with joyThat I could neither guess nor drawI kept losing hands over fistCaught curses in two full listsStill, let me get all poetical and sayMay pictionary intersperse all my bad daysIt is a truth widely acknowledged that a real game of pictionary cannot be played without shouting at your team mates and

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-17461320201513883962009-01-26T01:40:00.000-08:002009-03-05T04:38:14.354-08:00

A one litre milk packHas a lot of potentialIt can become slackOr spill from overfillOr curdle like gelOr turn sour and smellOr boil over and raise hellButMore often than notWithin imposed societal limitsIt sits pretty in the fridgeTill someone comes and drinks it

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-82744620616202468192009-01-19T00:18:00.000-08:002009-03-05T04:38:29.674-08:00

Let it be known I am not able toBreathe in and outLike I used to doWith such easeThat I never paidAny attention to it--I curse this coldA perpetual fiendWho ran after meWith great speedWhile I was busyEscaping it--Only consolation is When twenty one people(No, I am not kidding)Filter in the liftThat only fits one-fifthAnd I am squeezedTo this cold metal wallI loudly sneezeIt’s fun to see howA

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-10549980448757990062008-12-15T02:37:00.000-08:002009-03-05T04:38:39.471-08:00

In late springWhen season bringsSounds and scentsAnd silver crescentsI hunt them rawWith small stonesHurled at treesIn lush overtones--Sickled and slicedThey lay bareWhile I pareTheir outer layersIn oil and spiceI drown their soulsAnd seal them tightIn china bowls--For sixty nightsAnd sixty daysEbony and lightThey embrace Till they are tenderBut a little triteI take one on a plateAnd then, I

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-53866617831572667512008-12-02T05:38:00.001-08:002008-12-08T11:33:07.038-08:00

This is a new start, isn’t it? (Though for a purist, I wonder if new start = return back)Still, new home in the same city... and loads and loads of cartons...If you see me now, a six feet tall man standing in middle of a tiny penthouse on the thirteenth floor, you will not be able to see me, because the cartons tower over me...Possessing so much material stuff can be justified I guess, but for

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-48479205535469721752008-11-20T04:20:00.000-08:002008-11-20T04:23:34.256-08:00

As the title specifiesThere’s a fish and a fishI will call them A and A[To avoid confusion, you know]A will flirt with ABut in a subtle wayNot to give truth away[A is in love, you know]A, on the other handWill take a stoic standA is just a good friend[Allergic to commitment, you know]But in a pond with umpteen fishesThey will keep each other’s wishesAnd bait in back scratching niches[It’s an

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-22035073874535073902008-11-14T04:14:00.000-08:002008-11-14T04:15:12.227-08:00

Over a Sunday brunch..."Today, in the newspaper, there was an obituary of a parrot! How crazy is that!""Yes, I read... So sweet...""Who reads obituaries anyways?""I do. In fact, it is the first thing I read in the paper everyday.""How weird is that!""Why? Some people who miss their loved ones want to share their grief, show love, care, respect... the least we can do is to read their loss... and

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-23556750801459666462008-11-13T06:22:00.000-08:002008-11-13T06:26:28.214-08:00

I wish I couldEnter certain headsAnd stay in themFor a few daysClean cobwebs Of muted thoughtsAnd know themIn a better wayKnow their poemsAnd their desiresWho they love What they conspireTo what musicTheir hearts beatWhat can I doTo make them complete --------------------{Wish list #1 is getting an electric toothbrush. No body ever gifts me an electric toothbrush! I have tried convincing people

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-57580715185349923322008-11-10T05:03:00.000-08:002008-11-10T20:28:00.927-08:00

He is wandering around... searching for someone."Hey!" I shout."How can you see me?""That’s not important. Take me with you..." I plead."No, No. I am looking for dead people...""I am dead. Look at me... my eyes... my heart... my soul..."He touches my nose."Don’t waste my time... You still breathe!"

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-21117889684385132362008-10-20T07:58:00.000-07:002008-10-19T13:37:14.498-07:00

When I am caught staring at these shot glasses, a dramatic dialogue ensues..."Name these Gods", I am ordered."Are these Gods? Never seen them before.""See...Exactly...Because they are!""OK... Hmm... Give a little hint...""They rock our world.""Oh...Are they your rock stars? Then one of them must be that guy Cobain... who went the heroin way because he found this earth heavier than heaven?""

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-18459747228588741172008-10-03T04:13:00.000-07:002008-10-04T02:09:37.786-07:00

It is not an age she should look forward to... ideally... It is an age where she is one-more-deep in so called Q-life crisis... Still... she wants all of it... because today she can quote her favorite man to herself...Sit, drink your coffee here; Your work can wait awhile. You're twenty-six, And still have some life ahead. No need for wit; Just talk vacuities, and I'll Reciprocate in kind, or

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-42510458690054632372008-09-27T11:16:00.000-07:002008-10-04T02:19:19.762-07:00

I want to keep this narcisstically-self-indulgent-blog-of-a-thing as original as possible, but today it simply can't be. And may not be for some time to come. For you see, I am neck deep in love with Ahmed Faraz . I wish I could express even a tenth of what he does, the way he does it, but we know I can't. So, skip amateur me, and welcome this genius. us ne kaha sunn ahad nibhane ki khatir mat

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-76676338050530559202008-09-18T03:38:00.000-07:002008-12-16T09:35:32.472-08:00

In a crowded busWhere people sway Like dried up leavesOn a shivering treeA group of girlsDiscuss a crushYour name shinesIn their gleeAndOn the front pageWhere headlinesCompete for sightAn old wise manIgnores your nameSitting in protestAnti reservation viewsAnd goes straight toReading business newsAndThose little handsGood with graspGrab some hair A woman gaspsA woman shoutsYour name in ireThe

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-55245675513823789292008-09-07T11:26:00.000-07:002008-09-12T13:02:54.195-07:00

Imagine these as bullet(points)"You never hug me?""Yes, I am afraid I would never let go.""You have never given me a present!""I tried, but I am unable to find anything that deserves you.""Why don't you call me often?""I would rather call you darling.""Why are you never serious?""Because you like comedy movies.""Are you even listening?""I am all ears, and I am all yours."-------------------------

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-63383235757384299112008-09-05T11:38:00.000-07:002008-09-07T07:52:45.408-07:00

Imagination deceives dangerously. You can construct an entire life out of it. Be pursued after. Fall in love. Have a break up. Find love again. Marry. Have kids. Have an extra marital affair. Be forgiven. And all other shitloads of soap-opera crap. And when you get tired doing that, you realize that the house you are sitting in is very lonely, nothing good is coming on TV, your phone has not rung

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-64519583523463599862008-08-26T09:34:00.000-07:002008-08-28T06:47:43.737-07:00

Emma Bee loves Mumbai. As much as one loves one's own new house. And almost as proud of it. She is eager to show me around... and show me all in a single day. We go to Wadala and Malad and Bandra and Andheri and VT and Marine Drive and Colaba and what not. At the end of the seven-hours-roaming-around-the-city routine, I can't feel my legs. Or the weight of my wallet. "Let us go and sit somewhere"

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-2585283855205946382008-08-06T05:42:00.001-07:002008-08-26T11:01:17.001-07:00

I have a poor track record for this year. The worst of all monsoons. I have gotten wet each and every time it has rained. I am not used to that. It is like running into someone who one has been trying to avoid. What is one supposed to do? Run away? Be sarcastically surprised? Pretend bear hug? Sorry...no. I can't fake it if I don’t like it... the smell...the splash...the puddles...the dirt...the

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-17588871135325476532008-07-23T03:43:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:02:10.451-07:00

I miss him when it rainsHow we would go out On a walk and return Soaking wet.A soggy cigaretteDangling on his lipLike some promise He couldn’t keepWhen it is all fog and dew I miss him as he knewTo make my cup of teaMilky, sugary, strongSteaming hot with gingerA cup in my hands in hisAnd warmth which lingeredAmid falling leaves and windHe would play guitar and singSoulful songs of lost loveI

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-56420072359637561052008-07-01T00:15:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:02:58.117-07:00

Please note that my ears are not bins for your disposable small talks. You all speak just for the sake of speaking. Some day my brain is just going to explode. Red blotches of its remains will display art on the walls. Over the course of time, they will dry up and stink of unfulfilled dreams. Ideas, brittle, sharp, broken into million pieces will seep into the carpet, invisible from naked eye.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-16931432079736374462008-06-24T04:31:00.000-07:002008-06-24T04:33:40.777-07:00

I hate this all-crowds-no-people city. Not that I am not offered helping hands while I hang onto the slippery life thread. I don’t take any. Sometimes we willingly walk into a survival trap to escape a maybe death. I did that once when I entered Mumbai. Enough. Bring on the probabilities now.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-47628211820774287132008-06-19T00:02:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:03:38.107-07:00

Hairdresser puts down the brush, and rumples my hair with both hands. I feel nice, like a pampered dog. Then I look myself into the mirror. I see a pile of shredded paper. On top of my head. A pile of shredded paper that may have got an electric shock. Hairdresser informs that this is a new shabby look, quite in in colleges these days. I tell her keep rumpling. I am so very pleased.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-54803927131652060622008-06-18T07:22:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:04:17.266-07:00

Make your presence feltCome onto meYou shameless placid pricksMake me angry and satedWanted and usedAbhorred and awaitedIrritated and amusedWithout losing a breathThen go one step aheadImpose your friend on meWho is frivolous and fickleHe will play with my hairAnd try lifting my shirtIn full public glareAnd when you are doneYou leave me wantingLike some strangers doAnd a few friends too----But

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-88803908273377652442008-05-05T23:34:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:05:53.055-07:00

She says:You gave me your heart And I gave you my mineAnd this deal was signedOn our love’s dotted lineBut I have a complainAnd I will not refrainIn calling you a cheatBecause your heartDidn't my desires meet And we won’t ever wedBecause your heart is made Of cheap cotton threadWhen I washed it and rinsedIn my love’s deep springsYour heart bled and shrankAnd in its own color it sankLike a heavy

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-79639672785644530812008-04-30T05:37:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:06:19.301-07:00

I am standing on top of a divider. I feel a little... Ummm... uplifted... a strange thing to feel when what you are really feeling is down. To reach to the divider, I had to cross a road, which took me fifteen minutes. Or so. This time the culprit was not the non stop traffic. Quite the opposite. It was a standstill show, where cars are placed bumper to bumper, inter-meshed with cycles, two

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-6866663969820507622008-04-28T10:37:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:06:51.416-07:00

Apparently, it is a crime to be twenty-five, an Indian woman and not willing to get married. People (read parents, friends, relatives, colleagues, neighbors and all the other completely unrelated sets of homo sapiens) can't understand 'why?' Because you know, getting married is the second most sacred thing to do in this world, the first being putting your head in the oven and setting the

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-90532624115872857862008-04-08T10:38:00.000-07:002008-04-08T10:39:56.155-07:00

Fifty five words. Only. What can fit in this? Fiction? You must be kidding me! Even reality demands more space, even if it has a shorter shelf life. But then, if you really, really want, I can break up the made up truth, garnish it with homemade lies and serve you piping hot...Will that do?

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-43418469830166240772008-04-03T08:37:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:07:22.560-07:00

Some contacts, like hopeAre spent, and can’t cope With the idea of revivalBecause those days stacked upWhen egos have spoken for allBecome a formidable wallWith shards of cut glass on topFamiliar strangeness descendsAs if we were never friendsOr maybe we have so much to sayThat we keep words awayStill, after hordes of mum daysI am still there, and so are theyOnline, but not wanting to beThe first

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-4942400215801351102008-03-12T12:54:00.000-07:002008-08-26T11:08:10.914-07:00

On an average, I get five forwards per day (too few? or too many?)... And I diligently read all of them. What a nice break to have during work! Cute babies served on a platter... the real definitions of friendship and love and trust and life... the various misfortunes that can befall if you don’t forward that forward to ten other people...how Amy Bruce is still battling some life threatening

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-74426851283950609852008-03-09T03:39:00.000-07:002008-08-31T03:41:39.153-07:00

"You know, I shouldn't have said no to him... ""Do you love him?""Not really, but he does…and I want to respect love...""Then respect the love you experience. Only.""Hmmm... I feel he will curse me and I will never be able to find true love again...""Oh come on! This world is dripping with true love... there are puddles of true love you have to skip while going to work... there are leaves of true

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-90162424873269794512008-03-08T10:49:00.000-08:002008-03-13T11:53:19.281-07:00

Saturday mornings are sleepy headsBut today, while reading paper in bedA sort of feminist awakening was stagedWoman's Day popped out of every pageI got enlightened enough to realizeI am a woman and I have my rightsEmpowered, equal, daring and firmMy head was full of fancy termsI went out, shopped and gloatedFed my dreams till they bloatedFeticides, dowry, abuse asideMy day was on an estrogen

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-24092930520901771202008-03-07T12:43:00.001-08:002008-03-13T10:48:54.112-07:00

On the usual day, death steals lives. In this brilliant novel, it does a lot more. It narrates a mesmerizing tale... a story so well-written that it grips you, hypnotizes you and transports you to another world... even though it is the world you would hate to be in... the world of Nazi Germany, of discrimination, of Hitler, of air raids, of lost love, of broken human spirit and of foolish undying

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-54055398018892869282008-03-01T02:17:00.000-08:002008-08-26T11:08:43.954-07:00

First one is such a discovery!You can't believe your eyesHorrified, look in mirror twice Is it time for those age-lies?Second one is a confirmationTo end the youth jubilationBring on old-is-gold adageIt is start of middle ageBy the third, it's a routineOf denying the reality-beingAlways with plucker in handTo pull out that gray strand"Old age ain't no place for sissies" - Mencken

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-58376749227978397812008-02-22T09:05:00.000-08:002008-03-09T05:55:55.304-07:00

"I think you should make your bed everyday.""Really, why?""Our room will look more neat. See my bed ... and look at yours ... I feel like I am living with a guy. Try being a girl ...""Ok , ok, maybe then I will change my bed sheet...""Yes, that is a good idea ... spread the pink one with flowers…""Ok"[Half an hour of struggling with the bed sheet and bed...I was so proud of myself...But life had

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-62877822387422758062008-02-20T08:56:00.000-08:002008-08-26T11:09:14.561-07:00

Have you ever been angry? So angry that your brains shut shop than rather bear the brunt? So angry that the quickest remedy you can think of is to call the anger-inducing person names over the phone? You pick up the receiver, absent-mindedly dial your own cell number, get more angry that the person isn't picking up your call, and even more angry because your cell phone has to ring at the same

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-12634676371997991312008-02-12T09:30:00.000-08:002008-08-26T11:12:04.989-07:00

Some habits die hardLike looking at the clockAs soon as one wakes upOnly that the hands are stillAs alwaysShe does not like time being slackShe will rewind it every morningAnd try to revive it by slapping its backWhile I, rinsing sleep off my eyesWill tell her, "No use, it won't work""Well then, I will force it to"She is determinedShe will struggle for some more timePatting, coaxing, dissecting,

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-70484859159414039652008-01-28T09:08:00.000-08:002008-02-12T11:18:52.359-08:00

Don't tell me its Monday morningAgainAn unsuspecting dream, Murdered in cold bloodLike a slaughtered sheep,By unrelenting alarm beepDon't tell me I have to wake upAgainNow we play the routineOf how was your weekend spentMovies? Shopping? Partying?The blurred voices don't relentDon't tell me its weekend hangoverAgainSleep gathers round my eyes Like ripples in still timeAnd coffee cups don't

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-22055000902536787282008-01-16T10:36:00.000-08:002009-02-06T04:36:29.618-08:00

Lohri is not such a good idea in Hyderabad.Apparently, permission needs to be sought to light up the bonfire.The permission granter(optimism is necessary in presumptions)has never heard of such a festival.So, we make a convincing argument – seasons, harvest, Punjab, spirit, joy, celebration, diversity, India.He raises an eyebrow. Hope dangles on tenterhooks. His tolerance agrees on the condition

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-19290639351093906412008-01-11T10:23:00.000-08:002008-01-11T10:34:24.153-08:00

Every other dayThe desires decideSeek and hideEvery other dayA restless meTo nth degree Every other dayI scan thoroughfaresOf deserted staresEvery other dayI find nothingIn my longingEvery other dayLike some tradeA request madeDo not comeIf you haveTo go awayEvery other day

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-50452339565010563122007-12-29T10:09:00.000-08:002008-08-26T11:12:35.116-07:00

I never could really understand her.There were six screaming decades between us.Sometimes, I made an effort to place myself in her shoes. But of course there were no shoes then. She was a teenager, like me at that time, but barefoot, doing household chores, cooking, cleaning, washing, accepting everything as it came. She used to talk of her village, of hills and beautiful valleys, and I would

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-39472999049306097112007-12-28T08:40:00.000-08:002007-12-28T08:59:23.767-08:00

I get a call from Emma BeeTell me quick, in another nickWhat shall my resolution be?Year end is near, you pick dearAs I have no time, you seeI say will do, without further adoBut give me at least some clueWas your year nice, full of spice?Were there times you felt blue?Or you imbibed a vice, maybe in disguise?She sighs, and then liesRules in my life are well laidI avoid jerks, complete my workI

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-29222508645996410442007-12-22T23:29:00.000-08:002007-12-22T23:37:13.369-08:00

I beg her not to cry todayAnd she does notNot a single drop comes my wayTo make me stopFrom going awayButShe must have weeped our lossAs soon as I left, BecauseThere is a wet patch on my shoulderThat would not dryNo matter how hard I try

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-19601904509327108002007-11-23T09:49:00.000-08:002007-11-23T10:39:13.068-08:00

It is mostly wordsHyperbole or undertoneLike some bricks, left aloneDecide to build a wallTo shelter muse when rain fallsIn its own slanting wayBut sometimesIt goes beyond words whenWhat not said is meant. Then,Ideas may rhyme in graceOr disappear without a traceLike paper boats in water clogged lanesBut I am confused, please explainTo understand poetry, why do you require brains? (Not that you

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-11182842136295294182007-10-30T10:15:00.000-07:002009-01-28T03:52:01.325-08:00

Whatever little poetry I write, rhymed or otherwise, I have never really struggled with it. It just comes to me and I put it down somewhere… But not today. Today, I have an idea, a desire, a deep sense of loss, some elusive words… but I am scared to pen down my thoughts, because I do not want to grant them the luxury of permanence that comes with writing. Instead, like someone who loves rain

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-92152680198616498312007-10-23T10:58:00.000-07:002007-10-23T11:07:53.526-07:00

Today is the eighth day of NavratrasI do not know the exact reasonFor this nine day festive seasonBut in all sincerityThis effort to bribe prosperityDoes not appeal to me.Still, In a house which is not my homeWith people I only met yesterdayIn front of God who isn't my ownI pretend to prayFor things I can't get aloneAnd He just may

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-32721491613798422242007-10-10T11:37:00.000-07:002007-10-14T10:39:23.314-07:00

ObliviousAren’t there days when you feelLike not getting out of the bedSkipping life’s big little dealsJust lie around pretending deadOblivious of the alarm pealsAnd the routine of being ledPretensionsThere is a person you disdainWho is always too busy to smile At a child, or eat, or talk, the vainPretensions of professional lifeTell me, what exactly do you doWhen you realize that person is

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-89582412991216629082007-07-31T08:34:00.001-07:002009-02-06T04:37:19.870-08:00

The day starts early. Sometimes I wake up the Sun and sometimes the Sun wakes me up. I go the balcony to breathe in any remnants of yesterday. Mostly there are not any. I live on the sixth floor. If I stand in the balcony and look straight ahead, I can see the concrete jungle the city is. If I look down, I get a glimpse of a human zoo. This daily exercise puts a lot of things into perspective.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-45602962081287269062007-07-20T08:31:00.000-07:002007-07-31T08:33:53.398-07:00

Ideas conspire against meIn protest, agree to disuniteTurn into random thoughtsThat won’t settle on paperWhen I sit down to writeTears, like shameless guestsIgnore my inhospitable hintGatecrash my lone eyesWhen I am amid a crowdWith no where to hideMemories are mischievous childrenWho have forgotten how to behaveIn absence of a mother’s graspThey frisk all over the placeAnd leave me smiling at

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-48741565876234532232007-05-09T11:18:00.000-07:002007-05-09T11:25:51.434-07:00

A sundry rainy Monday morningI wake up to find the faded sunSome yellow has dropped into dahliasAnd some on the leaves of a tall Ashok treeThe earth looks a pudgy chocolate brown thoughTitillating gentle wind flows like a bride’s trainSoftly, making no soundSomething smells delicious somewhereI am standing with the door half openTalking to an idea that has arrived like a persuading salesman And

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-23633704207725342862007-04-12T10:47:00.000-07:002007-04-12T10:50:10.767-07:00

They say a week is a long time in politics. Yeah, right! Talk about the last week I have spent here and it probably will stretch from Lucknow till Delhi. And me, not even in politics! Anyways, talking of politics, its election time in U.P. and the newspapers reek of half-page ads of who has done what (and who has not) and what targets have been achieved...its boastful branding at its best! And

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-77510446419696529122007-03-29T09:54:00.000-07:002007-03-29T09:57:11.499-07:00

It’s the sunniest of days when it rains the hardestJust after I put my two weeks’ laundry to dryThe sky bursts open as if waiting to cryThe held-back tears roll over and seep into my soulWhen I go to the terrace to pick my clothesIt’s the truest machine-love that hurts the deepestAnd if it is a test of my patience, this is not the right wayI agree everyone has one’s own set of misfortunes to

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-6834951694427922592007-02-27T11:40:00.000-08:002007-02-27T21:19:08.815-08:00

Music beginsAn ambivalent stringHarmonious haywireTempers afireRears are raisedMonotony phasedHope outflowsSolitary stars glowTwo stay behindCacophony rewindsEyes on eyes No words, no liesDangling heartbeatsAnd ... A pair of left feet

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-79868396711410116082007-02-21T11:58:00.000-08:002007-02-21T12:33:30.542-08:00

Ever wondered the number of things a person can be afraid of? I mean one can be afraid of death and diets, dogs that bite, confined places, putting on braces, flying high, saying good-bye, etc., etc. Pretty normal stuff! You crawl towards me one day and tell me you are afraid to stand up because you suffer from something called stasibasiphobia and I will sit down besides you and say, “Not to

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-5771557434363893102007-01-05T13:12:00.000-08:002007-01-05T13:16:16.160-08:00

The Review:Hari Kunzru writes in his this second book – “The real world possesses the paradoxical quality of not feeling real enough”. Maybe that is why he makes a super-writer effort (and does not fail in it) to tell a story that is based on an entity that is entirely virtual – a computer virus. But then, computer viruses don’t drop out of heaven. They are carefully crafted by minds so

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-11016667474513757262006-12-31T10:21:00.000-08:002006-12-31T11:18:56.245-08:00

So, the year end is here. Have you bought a new calendar yet? No? Neither have I…ever. Since times immemorial, I have left this task to various shopkeepers and organizations…who give me 365 days neatly packed…sometimes all on a single sheet…sometimes on twelve. I prefer the ones that have 365 sheets…they are more convenient because only one day comes at a time. And if you are lazy and forget to

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-84697998477532383542006-12-28T14:05:00.000-08:002007-02-21T12:37:08.741-08:00

Like...... Oil from hot cutlets through a paper napkin... Fog through clothes left outside on winter nights... Sunshine through a thin slit in the curtain... Dust through shoes that were once white... Sound of a buzzing alarm through a lazy dream... Drowsiness through a mind fighting to concentrate... Restlessness through a child who is ordered to sit still... Glee through eyes planning to

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-77703116516373143532006-12-20T07:14:00.000-08:002006-12-20T07:37:11.995-08:00

The Review:A kite runner chases kites – the kites that have been competitively cut, the kites that have been aimlessly flying till they are grabbed by two eager hands, the kites that are as treasured as the babies who are lost and found. The kite runner is a twelve year old servant boy who chases kites for his twelve year old master. It’s the story of their lives and how circumstances force them

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-62742010207563472922006-12-13T20:43:00.000-08:002008-12-10T07:50:39.987-08:00

Confused5 years go – it’s meA year ago – it’s meRight now – Well...you guessed it right...it’s me again CrazyMy sister, who stays in Mumbai, telling me on Friday late night that she is coming to meet me and I should come and pick her up from station, Saturday early morning.LoveHmmm...Have never been able to define this heavenly concept but I guess if it were to take an earthly form, it will come

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-22741857914142206372006-11-27T00:32:00.000-08:002006-11-26T12:11:47.406-08:00

...Care for some weird, subtle humour? Sample some here, here and here Keep some table salt handy...you might need to take a pinch of it while discovering some more here...

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-86670835800424333302006-11-19T13:38:00.000-08:002006-11-20T03:03:34.261-08:00

Patience...always......and some observations:-‘Probability’ is an amazing word. It is as effective a way to escape uncertainty as silence is to escape speaking lies. It adds such a positive ring to things. All the uncertainties in life are probabilities now! See, such a nice word.Don’t discuss placements with parents’ esp. mother. After explaining for thirty minutes the placement process...my mom

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1163362981385834172006-11-12T12:21:00.000-08:002006-11-12T12:27:12.877-08:00

There are a number of ways to start recounting an experience – let’s see...I can begin with a fairy tale style – “Once upon a time in District Park...” or a blunt detective -style – mystery – inducing – “ A red fake-leather wallet got stolen...” or a clichéd, oft-used – “ Let’s begin at the beginning..”I like that. Without much ado really, let’s begin at the beginning...First the cast of

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1162319523578136322006-10-31T10:29:00.000-08:002006-11-12T12:27:12.596-08:00

There is a park on the Derby LaneBeautiful flowers and lush green grassWe sit on a bench on one end eachAnd he sits between us like an alien from MarsWe both are a bit afraid to speak...You know how fights are...She does not know how to break ice...I don’t know why I should apologize...So he steals the thoughts from our minds...And gobbles up all the unspoken words...He grows fat and greedy and

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1161883487864070592006-10-26T09:49:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:12.364-08:00

The Review:The last song of dusk revolves around life of a couple. Their misfortunes are never-ending. Their struggle to find solace remains an endeavor throughout the novel. They try love but love is fleeting, they try songs but the words seem meaningless, they try to dance but the music keeps changing and at the end of the day, try dancing with life and your toes get stubbed, don’t they? But so

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1161267609048993472006-10-19T07:17:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:12.131-08:00

They say that when you have nothing much to talk about, discuss weather. And what an amazing weather-day it is today! Delhi weather does not provide many opportunities to say good things but somewhere around mid-October, the hot-stickiness transforms itself into that skin-tingling feeling when wind rushes into you. There is the warmth of sunshine and the hint of rain, and the smell of the coming

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1161011013678642972006-10-16T08:01:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:11.912-08:00

No passing foot kicked it.No little boy picked it.It is lonely being a stone.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1160759989295942552006-10-13T09:48:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:11.698-08:00

No, I am not obsessed with FD. Far from it! I just want to bury FD with all due respect. You see, it is a great subject taught by a great teacher, prescribed to all who want to study it. But then they should mention the contra-indications in the course outline. In some cases (like mine, of course), the side-effects can result in a disturbance of mental faculties. Do you want to know what people

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1160747211063543422006-10-13T06:41:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:11.473-08:00

They are planning to kill me....Why do they give me so many choices? Are not they aware that I am hyper – allergic to choices?First year of MBA was cool – no electives = no choicesSecond year, even compulsory courses are turned into electives... don’t they realize that the first thing they should teach is a course on choice management?People like me don’t mind if life is thrust upon them.Even if

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1160156825341773172006-10-06T10:34:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:11.319-08:00

Why should anybody doubt that I won't consume this cake the same day?

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1159904017979439202006-10-03T12:00:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:10.936-08:00

We study hard (at least some of us)...but then we (try to) party harder. Weekend after weekend, month after month, term-end after term-end, plans are made, undone, re-made, some successful and many not so that much. Our strike rate of a successful party plan( if such a thing exists) will be one out of ten. But at least we try.Then one thing every term-end I really look forward to is going home.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1159563541560485312006-09-29T13:57:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:10.614-08:00

Miss Emma Bee isn’t happy.She goes to shop, buys everything she wants.She comes back home.She feels bored.What are you supposed to do with everything after you have got everything?Obviously, aim high.She aims for the stars.She does not get any.What a frustration!She polishes her nails while listening to hard rock.She eats good food and reads a few books.She travels to places far and wide.She

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1158788649233256442006-09-20T14:43:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:10.318-08:00

Usually, the above titled posts are there on Saturdays or Sundays – when most people, recount their busy week schedules. But MBA isn’t your usual course. Here the weeks have no beginnings or ends. The concept of weekends is obsolete – you have exams/classes/presentations on your typical Sunday afternoons. The last two times when I went out to watch movies were on Monday nights rather than on your

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1158007024127069932006-09-11T13:36:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:10.062-08:00

After a very long time, I played this car-race game ‘Need for speed’. I got to choose my car and the course. I was excited.The countdown finished.The race started.First five minutes went into figuring which keys will move my car.The other cars must have completed one lap by then. Panic! Hurry!Either the car ran at full speed (which must be 200 km/hr) or it didn’t move.The car seemed allergic to

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1157744895352327572006-09-08T12:46:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:09.760-08:00

Life is an everyday struggle to find things that have suddenly become invisible. You open your eyes on a bright sunny morning thinking that maybe today...everything will go just perfect when...THUMP! You are lying flat on the floor, your foot entangled in a LAN wire+ iron cord+ charger wire...wondering whether you fell directly from the bed or tripped. It is not a very nice way to wake up to the

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1156886361358797962006-08-29T14:16:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:09.580-08:00

Finally, it rained today. Maybe just to fulfill some obligation of monsoon season. It only rains when it rains hard. I won’t mind clothes not drying or power supply going phut or the killing humidity afterwards. Anything for rain-on-dry earth smell and ear-shattering sounds of lightning.Just, some days, let it rain with the sole purpose of drenching earth, objects, people.Jug Suraiya’s column

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1156605521186052872006-08-26T08:11:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:09.360-08:00

I like reading Dilbert. Though the humour is subtle and mostly American-corporate-life centric, you can’t say that it does not make you smile once in a while.Few days ago, I came across this strip. Earlier, I was a bit apprehensive when I decided to go in for marketing major.Now, I think I won’t have much trouble getting a job.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1156019373936087262006-08-19T13:25:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:09.102-08:00

No Sundays off Life is a grindAnd IB isn’t all ha ha hee hee (anymore)

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1155844225130923942006-08-17T12:34:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:08.718-08:00

On the way to Delhi, we stopped at Midway and bought imli. Small brown imli balls wrapped like toffees. Just put them in the mouth and they melt into a tangy-sweet-salty taste. Every molecule on your tongue gets a vibrant shake. We hogged on imli balls in the car. I ate a lot of them today and am still going on. I just don’t want that taste to go away from my mouth. On the way back, the weather

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1155717438556541632006-08-16T01:30:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:08.416-08:00

This Planned-Unplanned Trip isn’t a misnomer. It is a reality we lived for the past fortnight. After making elaborate plans to go to Shimla, then Amritsar, then Agra, half of us didn’t know where we would ultimately spend the next two days. Most of us were not sure of going, most of us backed out or tried backing out (including me) but few of us ultimately went. Why was this trip so elaborately

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1154890147939111742006-08-06T11:45:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:08.048-08:00

The Review:How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life is the book you might like if you are:1.Around 16-19 years of age2.Have an acute desire to know what American teenaged girls like to wear(or why they don’t like to wear much)3.Want to live an acronym-planned lifeThe book is about Opal Mehta, a sixteen year old NRI girl whose family’s ambition is to see her at Harvard. She is a

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1154453631646797682006-08-01T10:31:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:07.823-08:00

This has to be written because if it wasn’t so chaotic, it would have been hilarious. Day: SundayTime: 2:30 AMWorking on: An IB presentation due in about 12 hoursPeople present: Me, DK, SW are on bed. VG and SK are on chairs. We have finally settled down to work after bouts of chatting, orkutting, eating, etc. (I mostly use initials of names to protect identities. As if there is a need for it.

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1153846416340888522006-07-25T09:52:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:07.480-08:00

Today, when auto stopped at another red lightShe came towards me and held out her tiny palmBecause I usually get upset by such pitiful sights......I turned away my face and pretended to stay calmPat!She hit me hard on my arm and it left a small black stainI was too shocked to react and she laughed and ran awayMaybe she just wanted me to feel a bit of her pain......Or maybe she was teaching me a

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23931711.post-1153318441545985662006-07-19T07:10:00.000-07:002006-11-12T12:27:07.231-08:00

The Review:This book is not for the weak-hearted. And if you are a hardcore vegetarian, you might feel like puking at least once during the course of the book. As the title of the book suggests, the book is about life of Pi Patel (quite an interesting story behind his name), a sixteen year old lad who gets marooned on a lifeboat with no one less than a Bengal Tiger. The novel revolves around who

hopscotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06841437108719787593noreply@blogger.com0